Drowning in the Bullpen
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: A week through the eyes of Donna Moss. “This weekend I’ll lose touch with reality and wake up wanting on Monday…” JD


Title: Drowning in the Bullpen  
  
Author: ScullyAsTrinity  
  
Category: Angst, J/D  
  
Rating: R, for language  
  
Disclaimer: I've been lacking in the disclaimer department lately. They're most certainly... MINE! MUAH HA HA HA!  
  
Feedback: Hit me up with an IM ;-) BNLXPhile12.  
  
Summary: A week through the eyes of Donna Moss. "This weekend I'll lose touch with reality and wake up wanting on Monday..."  
  
[Drowning in the Bullpen]  
  
Time is an illusion in this place. I'm moving too fast or I'm moving far too slowly. At warp speed it's easier to comprehend the things that are around me. At warp speed it seems I can slow down. If I go slowly, things seep in and contaminate my mind, my one-track mind. I have to move fast.  
  
I thought at first that it was the way in which I chose to conduct my work that made me the way I am. But it's not, it's you. You're every little stress, every smile and every tear that has happened since I began here.  
  
Every blow that I get... everything...  
  
I crack, minimally. I'm fractured just a tiny bit, but the fissure spread throughout my body and I disintegrate.  
  
Congratulations on a clean shot Josh.  
  
Parts of me scatter across the faded White House linoleum. They fall so fast, the pieces all fall so fast. With you I fall so fast. It's odd, as I become nothing more than emotional clutter, the only thing I can think about is- it's Monday.  
  
I can't make it through Monday without becoming restless. Mondays find me irritable and irate. Mondays find me wanting something in my life on a Sunday and rest on a Saturday. Monday calls for me to somehow make sure that the rest of my week isn't going to be shot to hell.  
  
Tuesday rolls around and my irritability is replaced with the overwhelming need to have it all be over. Tuesday is the day that Sam decides he's going to bring me lunch because I seem too busy to eat. I seem too busy too sleep. I'm just far too busy to breathe right now. I'm fading fast here...  
  
You rescue me on Wednesday with a well timed Danish and coffee. You save me with your smile and the order to get you the Mueller-Stahl file. You save me with your stolen glance while I'm at the photocopier. Wednesday is the middle of the week, the middle of the chaos. Wednesday is the day that you choose to wrap your arms around me and ask me if I'm all right. I still can't breathe but being in your arms spurs my lungs into action. The scent of you, your cologne and coffee fills my head and I'm sure I swoon, but you can't feel it because you're holding on so tight.  
  
Thursday is all I can do not to scream. You're not here at all today, and I have nothing to look forward to. I have no one to speak with. It all passes in front of me in a haze. A haze that is broken only when CJ, Sam, and Toby invite me out for a drink. The metaphorical haze is replaced by the familiar fogginess of Georgetowne Station. My eyes blur after the third tequila shot that Sam buys me and I loathe you for not being here. I return to my desolate bed to get three hours of sleep and return to you. You're grumpy but that's not surprising because it's...  
  
I hit the bottom on Friday and you're all I have. You're the only real thing amongst the memos and the chatter. On Friday you want me to believe it's Wednesday again, and you do so by wrapping me in your arms again. It's different today. Today you're not wearing your regular Friday suit, but a variation on it. Everything is dark, your tie, your shirt. When I hug you now, it seems warmer, as if the color is embracing me, pulling me in. This darkness isn't the ominous darkness that I tend to shy away from. This darkness is bright and warm and wonderful.  
  
Every Friday you wait for me. Wait for me to get there. There being wherever I'm supposed to be at the end of the week. You wait there, in your dim office... patiently. You pretend to be consumed with work while I work away with this migraine that beats down on me. You sense that I'm in pain, bring me Tylenol, some water, a diet coke.  
  
Retreat.  
  
And you're back in there as I wallow here. I'm deep in grief and confusion but I push through countless memos, depo-s... typos. It all bleeds together and I'm finding a means to an end that I don't really care about.  
  
Once I'm finished, and I tell you so, you shut off the light with no pre- empt. Your coat is on and your briefcase is in hand, you're completely ready to go. You've been waiting for me. You help me slip my coat on and then your left hand finds the small of my back. I'm being walked out, but you don't want to make it seem like that.  
  
I'm generally silent, but this time, I want to tell you something.  
  
I don't, for fear I'm going to rock this fragile balance that we're perched precariously atop of. As usual, you sense something is dangling in the air between us and face me before we make it to the double doors of the bullpen.  
  
"What?" you prompt. I'm not surprised that you realize something is different; something is no longer static here.  
  
I wish it were as easy as me simply stating that I want you in my bed. I want to scratch my nails down your back so hard that I practically draw blood. I want you to whisper my name in my ear and follow it with 'I love you so much that it scares me.' I want you to tell me that this is so important that you don't want to screw it up. I want you lying beside me, all sweat and skin, longing to be back inside me. I want you to make love to me, fuck me, and have none of this thrill be gone. I want.  
  
I wish.  
  
This weekend I'll lose touch with reality and wake up to wanting on Monday... but for now it's Friday. 


End file.
